


Water Damage

by Deep_South



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Billy knows, Getting Together, Hot Tub Sex, M/M, RAINSTORMS, Rain Sex, Showers, Steve likes it Wet, Swimming Pools, Tears, Water, Water Kink, Water Sex, Why is Billy Hargrove always wet, fetish for anything wet, steam, storm kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-09-23 17:06:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17084306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deep_South/pseuds/Deep_South
Summary: Steve liked itwet—slick, damp, leaking, soaking, waterlogged, anddripping. And he didn’t even mean sex. Granted, he liked that wet too, but it wasn’t just a euphemism; he just liked things wet.**The *second* thing Steve had ever noticed about Billy Hargrove was that he rarely clothed himself entirely, always sure to show off just that excess amount of skin and parading it around like he thought that would be the *first* thing others would notice. The first thing that Steve had noticed was that Billy was often wet.(Or: Steve is alittleobsessed with how hot Billy looks wet and does what he can to find ways to keep him that way.)





	Water Damage

**Author's Note:**

> I should be working on the chapter fic, but this just happened first. :0
> 
> (Written to fulfill the prompt request: "Steve just likes things 'wet'").

Steve liked it _wet_ —slick, damp, leaking, soaking, waterlogged, and _dripping_. And he didn’t even mean sex. Granted, he liked that wet too, but it wasn’t just a euphemism; he just liked things wet.

He liked the spray of the sprinkler in the summer, the droplets flickering their way across the grass and the warm flush of his skin. He liked the fabricated waves of the pool, undulating around his body underneath the water as he tested just how long he could hold his breath.  
He liked the steam that rose up in the shower, especially the one in the locker room, where the condensed rising stream of it dripped in rivulets down the peaks and valleys of all the hard planes of flesh. He liked the slick scent of sweat, pressed up against him on the court, or slipping down his temples and the light curve above his lip on a scorched august day. He liked the cold prick of ice and snow when it slipped between the cracks of his clothing in winter, melting upon contact in all his crevices. He liked tears, fat ones that slid from long soaking lashes, and the wet sound breath makes on a sob.

**

The *second* thing Steve had ever noticed about Billy Hargrove was that he rarely clothed himself entirely, always sure to show off just that excess amount of skin and parading it around like he thought that would be the *first* thing others would notice. The first thing that Steve had noticed was that Billy was often wet. At least at the times that Steve saw him, which might have had a situational bias factor at play, but still.

Billy sweat on the court. Billy dripped in the shower. Billy would pour beer all over himself at parties, let the gleaming foam of it slip all over his skin from chin to chest. Billy never seemed to understand how to dress in winter, the melt of snow clinging to his body through the first three periods and slicking up his hair—the droplets of rain and slush further reapplying themselves to his curls whenever Billy snuck out for a smoke after every other class. And Billy’s tears (although he protected them like a secret), when he cried, where huge and unrelenting. And on the rare occasions they did appear, his eyes became so very blue, like so many bodies of water. 

Billy did cry, or had cried, once. Not in front of Steve, exactly. But Steve had still seen it, by some miraculous accident. Steve had been out patrolling the woods, a residual habit that had him moving quiet and slow when he saw him. Billy had pulled over on the side of the road, tucking his Camaro behind a crop of trees. And then he just got out of his car and sat on the hood in the dimming light, smoking a cigarette as fat, wet tears slid silently down his face. The better part of Steve had wanted to comfort the guy somehow; the curious part wanted to demand to know the reason; the smarter part knew to book a hasty and just as silent retreat; and his darker side… well his darker side had just wanted to rush home and alleviate the rapidly hardening pulse of his suddenly too-hard dick in his too-tight jeans, because Billy’s face was _beautiful_ and _wet_. 

His dark side won. Steve had gone straight home and climbed into the shower. Palming his cock fast and rough as the hot water washed over him, Billy’s name in his mouth and tear-stained face on his mind as his orgasm slammed through him like a riptide. 

After that Steve became, not exactly _obsessed_ , but also not exactly *not* obsessed, with finding ways to get Billy wet and keep him that way. He played harder on the court, really upped his game to a whole other level until Billy had to strain to match it, the exertion of it melting down his skin. Steve took longer showers after, lingered and wallowed in the steam like his muscles were just too loose and tired to move any faster, when what he really felt was a euphoric rush—particularly every time Billy came in right after and took the shower directly next to his, washing his body just as slowly to match Steve’s pace. Billy always applied way more soap than he needed all over his torso and his arms until they glistened, slippery and slick. 

Billy would do it every time; he’d shower next to Steve and wait him out in the steam until the next bell or the coach threw a head in to tell them to hurry up. Billy would offer that manic wild grin of his when he shut the shower off. Even as the shower head went dry, he’d still be dripping and wet and would never rub a towel over himself. He’d just shake instead, once or twice, to fling droplets of water that ricocheted over Steve, grin spreading wicked and wide like that was supposed to have annoyed him, eyes flashing when Steve just licked his lips instead, drank Billy in. Billy always left the rest to drip, pulling on his thermals and denim right over the damp slide of it, right in front of Steve like he knew somehow that Steve would think about how his clothes would be just a little wet to the touch for the remains of the day.

**

It was some sort of miracle: a waterlogged Sunday in early April, just on that crisp turn of winter into spring, and it was raining like a cool and windy version of a summer storm. Fat thick droplets poured down from the sky, and Steve had immediately taken the Beemer to the street to drive around in it, loving how the back roads gleamed and reflected with the light. Steve headed up to the quarry with plans to sit on top of his car in the downpour. No one else would be up there in that kind of weather. He could just spread out on the hood, let his body soak up all the rainwater and touch himself beneath it, thinking about how Billy’s body might feel if he were to join in with the raging storm and drip himself all over Steve’s skin—how slick and raw it’d feel to fuck him in it.

Steve was about ten minutes away from the turn off to the quarry road when he sees him, Billy Hargrove, walking slowly along the side of the street. Steve has no idea how long Billy has been out in the storm, but he was drenched in it, thoroughly soaked through and shaking in the wind.  
Steve pulls over, doesn’t— _can’t_ —even think twice about it before he reaches over to push open the door on the passenger’s side. Billy turns toward the car, eyes startled but open as they lock onto Steve’s. Billy’s eyelashes are heavy with the rain. His eyes have water in them too, something that seems to be welling up from some internal source; it turns his irises a brighter blue. The water from the storm doesn’t do anything to cover up the separate, fresher set of streaks trailing over his cheekbones down into his jawline. The tracks trace suspiciously from the melt of his eyes, and Steve just knows that this is now the second time he’s seen Billy Hargrove cry. 

Steve’s suddenly, blindingly hard. He no longer cares about the quarry; he can only see the water sliding over the slopes and curves of Billy’s face: how _painfully_ beautiful he is, where his tear tracks meet the rain. Billy stands there frozen. Steve can read his internal conflict of “fight,” “flight,” or surrender as the water pours all around him, pinging off his shoulders and sticking to his curls. The door stands open between them. The rain is loud against the pavement, but Steve’s voice comes out surprisingly clear and steady when his eyes lock back onto Billy’s blue: “Get in.”

Billy doesn’t even question it, just slides on in to the front seat, dripping rainwater all over the leather. Steve can’t help but notice that Billy’s not wearing his jacket, just a white thermal so soaked down that Steve can see right through it. The cold water has made everything hard and the wet-cling shows it: the ridges of his pecs, the peaks of his nipples. Steve can’t help but notice that too.

Steve has a blanket in his backseat that could easily be used as a towel. He doesn’t offer it to Billy and Billy doesn’t take it. Billy sits tall and still, like he’s afraid if he breathes too deeply something will break and he’ll be back out in the rain. Billy drips and Steve drives. They make it to the house in the white noise of the storm: the drops against the windshield, the swipe of the wiper against glass. Billy chews his bottom lip the whole way there. There’s blood on his face, just a single bright stream of it from a split at the corner of his mouth. It’s still fresh, or perhaps has been kept so by the rain. That’s wet too.

Steve pulls up into the drive and he’s out of the car the moment it’s parked; Billy follows. Steve leads them right past the front door to the side of the house, flips the latch on the gate to the back. The pool is right there. Billy stops right near the edge of it. Steve flicks his eyes to the rippling water, then latch back onto Billy’s. There must be something in Steve’s face as well, because Billy takes a step forward, automatic like a trance. He keeps his eyes wide open though, studying Steve, something animal and calculating, trying to figure out if he’s a predator or prey. Billy licks his lip, slow, shows Steve the gleam of his tongue. Billy’s body starts to tilt, just a little bit forward, and something in Steve breaks. Steve reaches out, grabbing on as he pulls them both together and twists. He can feel how hard Billy is everywhere against him as they fall into the pool; Steve kisses him. 

The water’s cold where it crashes in around them, then pulls them under. Steve had been expecting the impact, was prepared for it, but Billy wasn’t. He gasps against Steve’s teeth and the water rushes in. It’s not enough to fill his lungs, but it’s enough to overflow his mouth as he and Steve collide. They break back up above the surface and Billy goes to pull his neck away, but Steve pulls him back, presses against him tighter as he coaxes Billy’s mouth open and lets the water flood into his own. Steve can feel the wet of it spill over his lips and down his chin. He sucks it out of him, and Billy gasps again, followed by a groan deep in his chest as Steve drinks it down, swallows all the water Billy has to offer from his tongue.

And just like that, Billy’s hands are on him, tangling in the heavy fabric of Steve’s sweater, trying to get it off of him even as his lips refuse to let go and grant him the space. He settles for hitching the fabric around Steve’s shoulders, as his hands grope at Steve’s skin. Billy works his fingers all the way around Steve’s back, digging into the dip of his spine to pull him in tight. Steve’s not sure his body’s ever been *this* close to another person. Even with their clothes still on, it’s less of a barrier and more an enhancement. The rough sloppy grate of the fabric of Billy’s shirt against Steve’s chest highlighting just how little distance there is left between them. Steve gets his own fingers into the tangle of Billy’s hair, wrings out the water from his curls so that it will drip-stream down his hands, his wrists, tapper at his elbows. Steve moans, something primal and desperate and Billy matches it.

Steve’s never had anything so perfect: the water coming down from the sky, the water cradling them in a suspension below, and Billy in between. But Billy’s skin is cold. He’s been out in the chill of the spring rain for a while, Steve can feel it set into his bones. He’s shivering through the water, but he’s not backing down. And Steve knows he should help him, even if the ‘why’ of it is selfish; he wants Billy to fully understand the full pleasure of a storm. There are other ways to warm Billy up and keep him wet.

“Hot tub,” Steve tells him, gesturing with his head to the warmer option on the deck.

Billy nods, sloshing through to the pool’s side to pull himself up and over without using the stairs. Steve follows up the ladder, rushes to the cover of the hot tub and pulls it off. Billy is still shivering, but he doesn’t seem to notice that as Steve peels off the weight of the sweater from around his neck, lets it plop onto the wood planks of the deck. Steve peels his jeans down next, bending all the way down to pull them off his ankles.

Billy’s eyes go wide and dark, and he lets himself scan the lines of Steve’s body, deliberate and slow. It’d be calculated and coy if he wasn’t also drooling, whining a little bit in the back of his throat. Steve turns his back on him, lets Billy see him climb into the tub, pauses to look back over his shoulder right before he sinks down into it, ass on display and his eye brow raised, “You coming?”

Billy nods, starts ripping off his layers where they’ve long-since stuck to his skin. He’s back in and on Steve in an instant, crowding him into one of the seats and pushing him back. Steve can feel the press of Billy’s ass where it’s seated on the top of his thighs, Billy’s knees bent, split and spread over Steve’s waist. The water supports most of the weight of him. Makes him moveable and light. Steve grabs at Billy’s hips and pulls him down, wanting to feel the density. Billy cries out, latches his mouth around Steve’s neck as he grinds down into him, thrusting against him in little desperate movements.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Steve curses at him as he gets a hand between them, wraps his palm around the girth of Billy’s cock and strokes Billy through another wild, needy sound.

“So how do you want to do this?” Steve asks, because as far as he’s concerned they have options, so very many of them.

“However, fuck, _Steve_ ; however you want.” Billy sounds like he means it. It’s almost strange to hear Billy be serious about something, to finally know for sure that he actually _wants_ something and what that something is. But Steve isn’t about to complain because he very much likes the sound of that, almost as much as he likes the sound of his name on Billy’s tongue. 

Billy keeps his mouth sealed to Steve’s skin, sucks deep, warm bruises into the curve of his neck to mask his moans as Steve palms at his cock: slippery and loose, and, Steve knows, not nearly close to enough friction. The harder Billy chases after it, the harder the water around them churns in little waves that slap against the tiled-siding. “Oh yeah? _Anything_?” Steve asks, building the pressure of his hand as he goes, feels Billy’s body jerk and slosh water over the side of the frame. “That mean you’d let me fuck you? Would you like that? Would you get yourself all open and wet for me? Let me work my cock into this incredible fucking ass of yours?” Steve curves in close, twists his head down to lick along the ridge of Billy’s cheek for emphasis. He can still taste the tracks of salt. “Do you fast, and rough, and raw until you’re _crying_ for it?”

Billy moans again, low back in his throat as he nods, a surprising lack of hesitation as he speaks into Steve’s skin, “ _Yes_.”

“Or do you want to fuck _me_ , push all up and into me and show me what you’ve got; what I’ve been missing all this time. See if it’s anything like how I imagine it would be, like I do whenever I finger myself open and pretend that they’re yours.” 

Billy’s hands dig deeper into Steve’s rib cage, clutching at him as he groans, “Anything, either, _both_. Seriously. Whatever you want. _Anything_.”

“I want to ride you,” Steve says, simple and decided. Because he does. He wants everything else too—wants to do _‘anything’_ —but he wants this first.

Billy groans into Steve’s neck, sucks one more deep bruise into the skin with his teeth before he pulls away, eyes surprised but elated. “Yeah? I mean, _yeah_. Fuck, Steve, _do it_.” Billy lets himself go loose against the water, arms outspread, angling his broad body like an offering. Steve moves, pushes Billy back, letting the water carry them to the other side of the hot tub until Billy’s back hits the wall and he buckles into the seat. Steve climbs on top of him, their positions easily reversed. Steve reaches behind Billy’s head to pull out the bottle of slick he keeps stashed behind the frame. This isn’t his first storm on the deck, just the first he’s been able to have Billy here physically with him instead of his own fingers and the ghost image of Billy’s sweat and tears.

Steve gets a good handful on his fingers—more than he needs but as much as he _likes_ —and raises his hips out of the water. Billy watches, a dark hunger in his eyes as Steve reaches around to open himself up. Steve can guess that Billy’s never been one for patience and self-control when it comes to sex and endorphins, because Billy only waits a few beats before he joins him, frantically getting slick on his own fingers to reach around and join Steve’s. Steve doesn’t stop, just lets Billy join in, both sets of fingers sliding in and around him as they work him open together. The position also puts Steve’s cock right in front of Billy’s face. The moment Billy gets his middle and ring fingers in Steve alongside Steve’s pointer, Billy goes for it. He laps at Steve first—wet, warm licks of his tongue—before he takes the length of Steve’s cock all the way into the heat of his throat.

Steve’s eyes roll upwards, head tilting back into the downpour from the sky; lets the water cascade over his face as Billy starts to suck. Billy makes it sloppy and wet: so much pressure, and spit, and enthusiasm, that Steve knows that _Billy knows_ exactly what he’s doing in more ways than one. That somewhere along the tense invisible tightrope of a line that has led from them meeting to this moment, Billy had figured him out. Has been playing to it—on purpose. So Steve calls him on it, “Do you like getting yourself _*wet*_ for me, Billy?"

Billy’s eyes flutter and his throat replicates the motion as he moans.

“Are you wet for me now?” Steve presses him. 

Billy nods with his eyes closed, makes an affirmative hum around Steve’s cock, mouth too full to speak.

“Show me.” Steve’s loose enough. He knows he is, so he pulls his own fingers out of his body and takes Billy’s with him as he reaches down into the water to feel for Billy’s dick—to _check_. As promised, Billy’s so hard he’s _leaking_ , a warmer slicker substance than the soft water of the tub. 

“Oh fuck yeah, sweetheart.” Steve’s voice comes out wicked, not sweet, but Billy whimpers at the endearment and something in Steve’s heart flutters. He pulls himself out of Billy’s mouth, crumbles his torso over to replace the momentarily empty space with his tongue as he seals his lips around Billy’s. 

Steve smooths his thumb over the dripping head of Billy’s cock for a few teasing flicks. On an impulse, he pulls his hand out of the water after, wraps his palm around Billy’s jaw and pushes his thumb in between the seal of their lips to taste him. Steve makes a somewhat embarrassing sound as the taste of Billy hits his tongue, but then Billy’s answering with a noise even more desperate, curling his own tongue around the pad of Steve’s thumb to share the task of licking himself from Steve’s fingers, and Steve can’t wait; He sinks down into the water and finds Billy’s cock, lines himself up and sinks onto that too.

The ripple of pleasure that shoots up his spine is slow, suspended. It starts at the base and clicks its way up, vertebra by vertebra until he’s vibrating. Steve rides him just as slow, syncopates his movement to the beat of the rain in a steady, heavy grind. Billy clutches onto him tightly, twisting his fingers into Steve’s hips. He doesn’t try to speed or guide him, merely holds on as he watches Steve with something like awe.

Steve chases the angles he needs, the sheer size of Billy stretching him exactly how he needs to find the pressure that helps him climb. The rain seems to be coming down harder, or maybe it’s just the wind. Steve speeds his hips up incrementally with the weather. He kisses Billy again deep, takes the slick of his tongue against his own, curls and holds on until Billy starts moaning at a constant rate, little hitching breaths that still come as deep vibrations. 

Steve can tell Billy’s close by the way his body is shaking, trying to stave everything off for Steve to get there first. Steve appreciates that, but that’s not the way he wants it. So he tells him that, breaks away from Billy’s lips long enough to seek direct contact with his eyes. It should be awkward and too intimate, to look at someone that close. But it isn’t. “Come on Billy, do it. I want to feel it; I want to feel you get _wet_ —wanna _drip_ with it.”

Billy doesn’t last long after that. At Steve’s permission to let go, he does—pulls Steve’s hips down tight against him and thrusts a handful of times, quick and fast and he breaks. The feel of Billy’s orgasm hits in an electric blend of hot and searing liquid and Steve has to press his forehead against the smooth solid plane of Billy’s own to fortify his spine as he arches forward and comes. It hits him like a wave, crashing and cresting through him until he’s shaking with it, the movement creating a cast-off cascade of waves in the water as Billy pulls Steve’s hips down, pressing his own hips up to keep the pressure that Steve needs to extend the peak before he falls. 

They stay where they are after, for a beat or two, forehead-pushed-to-forehead, both still slick from the rain. Steve’s chest feels heavy; his pulse is erratic and he needs to breathe. Billy’s right there with him, panting into the cool air. Their breath comes out in small clouds of condensation—like steam. Steve lets his fingers skim the surface of the water, lazily tracing the swirls of his cum with the salt water. He should probably drain the tub and refill it, but that’s a problem for another time. Right now the swirl of it just coils something deep in his chest, it’s all just still so wet. He’s not done yet, not even close.

Steve shifts, readjusts so he’s looking back at Billy’s flushed, wet face. He feels Billy’s cock, still twitching through the soaked, dripping feel of it deep inside him, and tells him, “We should really take a shower.”

Billy smirks at him. And yeah, Billy’s figured him out. Steve knows that Billy knows that Steve didn’t have any intention of getting them clean.


End file.
